


Invite Me to Stay at Yours

by Lilian



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Attempt at Humor, Chubby Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fluff and Angst, Footnotes in text, M/M, Missing Scene, Oral Sex, Other, POV Crowley (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Soft Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:41:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22401976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilian/pseuds/Lilian
Summary: Crowley writes a List to cope. Aziraphale loses and gains some books.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 144
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	Invite Me to Stay at Yours

**Author's Note:**

> All the beautiful art comes from the wonderful Scribblemakes. Make sure to check out his tumblr! https://scribblemakes.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thank you for the beta to the amazing clearinghouse and hippocrates460, who both write delightful Ineffable Husbands fics. Go and read their stuff. :)

Crowley had a list, see. Not much of a material one, although that too existed at some point, back around the end of the 19th century when learning to write was getting trendy in some parts of the world and people scribbled down things constantly, even when they didn’t truly need them.

Crowley’s list had originally been something of an outlet; a way to channel his frustration. His frustration with Aziraphale, namely. Just when he finally worked up the courage to ask the angel out, on that devastating evening of 1273 when Crowley said ‘want to walk arm in arm?’ to which the angel patted him on his aforementioned limb and said “we wouldn’t want them to mistake us for friends now would we.” 1)

1) Ouch.

Crowley felt worse than burned. He felt iced all over, and he slept for a whole week in mortification, then went out to a terrible party and in the end, ended up writing a list at four o’clock in the afternoon, surrounded by similarly hungover list-writers. 2)

2) He had accidentally wandered into an author’s club, but hadn’t paid enough attention to notice this fact. Crowley imagined them all writing lists about things they cared about – so naturally, they started right on. Perhaps this was the reason one of history’s famous authors, Dac Clarissa, wrote something along the lines of… “her presence felt akin to that of the rising sun in early spring days, when she stepped into the room

clean the salon

dust the shelves

water the plants

take out rubbish

...that baffled scholars ever since.)

Crowley’s initial list went something like this:

  1. _Make Aziraphale aware that we are already friends._
  2. _Convince Aziraphale of becoming more than friends._



Of course it didn’t look very complicated from the outside, but then so hadn’t Aziraphale and he was a bloody piece of work. Even when he wasn’t annoying Crowley, he was still getting under his skin in various other ways. Let’s not get started on his smile for example. The way his eyes crinkled when he found something amusing, when his lips stretched and… Look, again, Crowley did exactly what he wasn’t supposed to do. Losing himself in the memory of that smile.

[Either illustration of Crowley sitting with the list, or thinking on the smile, or an image of Aziraphale’s smile – but only if Scribblemakes has time/ feels up to it still]

Never mind that. He _needed_ plans.

For starters, in achieving goal number one it would have certainly helped if he and the angel saw each other more times than once an odd decade or so. But following Aziraphale around was a pain in the ass too. Even though Aziraphale barely noticed, Crowley had to take up assignments always close-ish enough to where Aziraphale was stationed, and it was exhausting to deal with Shasha, who was the one demon who had to be buttered up to assign Crowley to the odd tempting in Hong Kong or Arizona or wherever Aziraphale’s job required him to be.

It was quite a relief when the angel bought the bookshop. Crowley purchased his flat on the same day 3) and convinced himself he wasn’t being pathetic.

3) Insofar “purchasing” meant “expected a property to be ready to move in and filled with furniture exactly to his taste”.

*

The list changed frequently and in great detail. Additions appeared. Tiny little notes like:

  1. _Make sure he doesn’t discorporate himself for crepes._
  2. _Memorise the layout of his bookshop so he’ll be impressed you know where the French Symbolists are._
  3. _Go meet that specific tailor in the West Indies who knows how to repair the coat Aziraphale likes so much so he can always have it mended._ 4)



4) That one accidentally turned into “give a small fortune to the family to make sure they teach their descendants how to mend Aziraphale’s coat” which was going more and more out of style. But whenever Crowley gave it back to him after a smaller or bigger repair he smiled so wild that Crowley’s heart went “oh, bugger”.

  1. _Make sure only boring and not too attractive people move into the 80000 meter radius of the bookshop._
  2. _Always have a very pretty plant to present Aziraphale with if the need arises. (Or if he asked for one.)_ 5)



5)There was a particularly exhausting hundred years (or what felt like that) when the “language of flowers” boomed. Crowley collected every custom and rumour about the widely used meanings and later got every book on the subject and after memorising the meaning of everything, he gifted the books to Aziraphale (okay, he left them inconspicuously around Aziraphale’s person or his bookshop) and then failed to work up the courage to actually get the angel flowers, despite several items on his list being encouragements or subtle threats (self-motivation!) to do so.

Also, _silk boxers_.

And then for two whole weeks sometime in the 21st century Crowley has felt the pressure of “tell him, for Eros’s sake, you are running out of time”, but he didn’t add to his list _Confess your undying love to him before the world ends_.

Can you blame him though? He had asked the angel to run away with him _twice_ , and each time it was a disaster _._ The first time Aziraphale backtracked on the part where Crowley had been sure he had made some progress already: even if they never said it out loud, they _were_ friends. All of the Buzzfeed quizzes Crowley filled out said the same. The second time Aziraphale got himself discorporated. What would have happened if Crowley said something of his deeper feelings? He could imagine Aziraphale’s confused (then pitying, then sad, when Crowley’s heart broke) eyes so well.

Not that Aziraphale was as clueless as he sometimes pretended to be. No, a lot of time, it was a mixture of a very clever front, and – not caring too much about things. That was actually worse to consider, let alone experience. Aziraphale patting his hand jovially, and saying “my dear boy, how kind of you, but please don’t waste your affections on me”. Yeah, that would end Crowley.

It would be worse than keeping his exhausted body rigidly away from slouching all over the angel while they sit side by side on the bus. There was something to be said about having their thighs touch, even if their sudden and close proximity makes Crowley unable to stare at the back of Aziraphale’s head, which he usually does when they conducted their secret meetings on buses.

  1. _Offer to give him a haircut to be able to push your hand through those curls._



Aziraphale hesitates after getting off the bus, and with every step towards Crowley’s flat he grows more vary and – it’s like a wall coming up between them, and Crowley just can’t deal with that so soon after getting his angel back. There is no reason to go their separate ways, is there? Where even would Aziraphale go, the bookshop was swallowed up in flames!

Aziraphale stops. “Crowley, I’d really better get—”

“Holy water!” Crowley interrupts, tiredly, but with the stroke of genius. Evil genius. Even if it’s for nothing more than a ploy to keep Aziraphale close that night. Under his roof, just for the next twelve hours or so. Okay, Crowley is greedy as always. Twelve whole hours? There are only about- what, six or eight left of the night? “I’ve got a lot of holy water spilled all over my carpet, and you’ve gotta help me, see, I can’t touch it.”

Aziraphale does that little gasp thing Crowley is secretly very fond of. (As number 17 on the current list advises, _say random scandalous things to prompt The Gasp.)_

“Holy water? Now just how could you have been so careless...” Amidst his indignation and nagging, he forgets to protest too much while Crowley leads him into his flat and locks the door behind them. 6)

6) Not to keep Aziraphale in. He could leave anytime he wanted, but the locked door might provide a few extra seconds for them to escape if Heaven’s or Hell’s agents decided to attack them.

Of course Aziraphale’s very presence in his flat prompts a lot of the list-points to flash before Crowley’s eyes. He and the List have a very turbulent relationship at the best of times. Kind of like him and “gardening”. 7)

7) This is how Crowley generously labels “shouting at plants”. The plants would have had some words to say about that, but unfortunately, nobody asked them.

At times, Crowley takes proper care of the list, and even though it's not written down anymore, carefully goes over it and re-evaluates points of it, adds or removes or renumbers certain parts. 8)

8) Take no. 15 for example. From the late 19th century until very early 20th no. 15 on the List stated “take Aziraphale back to the Kasmir and tell him one of his favourite sonnets”. The Kasmir’s owners then inconveniently died of old age and had no successors and the new bloke who bought it turned it into a shoe-making company, so first Crowley had to remake the point on the list saying “find a place Aziraphale likes as much as he did the Kasmir and take him there and tell him one of his favourite sonnets”. Then later in one of his more self-reflecting moments Crowley had the “tell him one of his favourite sonnets” part reworked into a more realistic “reference one of his favourite pieces of poems or one of his other loved literary pieces in some totally cool and uncaring way and try not to blush while saying it”.

Other times, when Crowley was in a Mood, the List was not allowed to exist, not on paper, not on electronic devices, but most definitely not in the head or the bleeding heart of a certain demon. Usually though, when it was a structured thing and had numbers, it continued with:

  1. _Get him to come and visit your flat more often._
  2. _Break out the good wine._
  3. _Get sloshed._
  4. _Tell him you can’t live without him._
  5. _Tell him you’d like nothing more in the world than holding his hand on the park bench._
  6. _And on the way there, and on the way back_.



Aziraphale nags about Crowley’s lack of cleaning supplies (“As if you’ve EVER had those kinds of products in the bookshop, angel!” “I have my… my till! I’ll have you know!” “That is NOT even used for cleaning! That’s the thing where you keep your non-existent earnings!” “How would you know? Have you cleaned before?”).

When it becomes clear that those are items Crowley does not own, Aziraphale miracles some and insists on cleaning up the doorway the human way as well, even after carefully miracling the droplets away three times. Crowley watches him from where he sprawled on the sofa while Aziraphale scrubs at the floor, fondness and exhaustion battling in Crowley at his sight. He takes off his sunglasses to rub at his eyes and thinks about number 55 on the List.

  1. _Watch him from under your glasses or eyelashes until you fall asleep. Preferably while being in the same bed, but who are we kidding._



Yes, he wants just that. He wants nothing more than to watch Aziraphale until he falls asleep. The line of his mouth. Why is he so obsessed with his mouth? (Crowley quickly adds a new item: _76\. Don’T EvER Let hiM know your obsession with his mouth.)_ His eyes, though. Watching him read would be enough. Aziraphale has a wonderfully expressive face, which he never quite seems to be able to control when he was engrossed in something.

“Stop, angel,” Crowley says, gently swallowing the nothing 9) in his throat. “It’s clean now. Come, we should rest for a while.”

9) certainly not pesky emotions.

“Can’t rest if you are in danger,” Aziraphale mutters, keeps methodically scrubbing the floor. Crowley is stuck between going to him and making him stop with pleading lips and begging hands, or delivering a perhaps stinging remark about OCD which he doesn’t mean in the slightest. But then Aziraphale continues, even softer: “I keep thinking about my books.”

  1. _Every so often, but never in predictable intervals, gift Aziraphale a manuscript or a new book. (The more value it has, the more you have to pretend it was actually nothing to get it for him, even if you wrestled two alligators and established a small-scale crime-fighting ring for it.)_



Crowley thinks this is how it feels for humans to have the blood freeze in their veins – or to experience heartburn. Suddenly, he is even more exhausted, because there is only a beginning of contemplation in his angel’s voice: not rage or pain, not yet.

He mentally adds a new item to the list.

  1. _Get him back all of the books he lost. Even if it’s impossible. Nothing is ever impossible._



“I’m sorry, angel. I should have grabbed more. Could have grabbed more. If I wasn’t so busy…” he swallows the rest of the sentence, and then thinks _fuck it_ , and lets it all out anyway. “Looking for you. I tried to look for you, but everything was burning and I couldn’t see you anywhere, and.”

Crowley’s body is doing that stupid thing again when it thinks it’s running out of air. He doesn’t even need to breathe, and he knows this with his head but his lungs are refusing to get on board. How inconvenient, how utterly embarrassing.

“Calm down, dear,” Aziraphale says, suddenly sitting in front of him, touchable distance, Crowley gasps and does not reach, hides his trembling hands in his lap instead. “I am here now.”

Crowley looks at him, helpless.

  1. _Never tell him that you find his eyes more beautiful than all of the wonders Earth has to offer._



__

Aziraphale looks back, holds his gaze. He regards him softly, his stare resembling the way it gets when they are halfway into their second bottle of wine. They only finished that one on the bench, and that was more than a while ago. Does that mean anything? Anything at all?

“I have books,” Crowley blurts out when he can’t stand the weight of Aziraphale’s stare any longer. “I forgot to give them to you, back in… sometime, I dunno, I don’t remember when I forgot, obviously, that’d be-- about twenty-five, thirty-ish pieces, and I’m pretty sure there’s a misprinted Bible in there, you could start a new collection, angel, it doesn’t have to be…” he runs out of breath, then wets his mouth and whispers, “the end.”

Something intensifies in Aziraphale’s eyes, something Crowley can barely look at for half a second before it makes him burn from the inside. His chest, his ears, his face, is all so blood-hot, and Aziraphale is… _that’s love_ , Crowley realises, heart like a frightened rabbit galloping behind his ribcage, _of course, of course, he loves books, he’d be really happy to know he’d get some of them, especially now that jgdsnsajedkjfewbfeiofdnsdlééaklhs_

Aziraphale pulls one of his hands towards him, leans down and presses his lips to the back of his wrist.

His mouth is warm, and Crowley _feels_ as he breathes out. Aziraphale lets his hand go just as gently as he collected it.

Crowley stares at him, and it’s really not that difficult now, when there is a sheen of pinkness spreading on the angel’s face and he is avoiding his eyes like he just discovered Crowley’s floor sprouting fruits, or perhaps interesting philosophical quotes. Or cakes. Or Antichrists. Fuck, it’s been a long day.

“Can I see them?” Aziraphale asks, and his voice is lower than usual, almost hoarse. Crowley is pretty sure all of his own internal organs are planning to send in their resignation due to unfair treatment.

**_He kissed my hands._ **

This, for just a second, reminds him of

  1. _Hire someone to bump into him (gently, very gently!) so he’d drop his gloves, so I can pick them up and offer them up to him again. If he says “Oh, Crowley”, just reply, “It’s nothing, angel”, and take his hand and ghost a kiss over it, almost touching, just for a millisecond, the barest of contacts._ and then
  2. _Ask for his hand in marriage._ and then
  3. _Vow to never leave him._ 10)



10) The points on the List tended to run away with Crowley’s imagination and evolve into daydreams. Sometimes he’d spend years obsessing over a detail like pressing his lips to those soft fingers.

He swallows when Aziraphale finally risks a glance back which proves a bit too much for both of them. So Crowley stands, imagines that his knees are perfectly fine and not wobbly at all, and says,

“Follow me,” thinks about taking Aziraphale’s hand with the excuse to pull him along too late and dedicates a mournful second to blame himself for his stupidity.

There are more than he remembered, although maybe they just seem more, because there is barely anything else in the room besides the bookshelf which holds them. Crowley wonders if it’s too much, too revealing, but...

Aziraphale gasps softly and there is some warm weight in Crowley’s stomach that settles at that sound, the crazy something swirling in his heart that always whispers the most reckless suggestions.

  1. _Tell him he is your sweetheart. Tell him he is the stars of your sky._



There are tears in Aziraphale’s eyes, and to Crowley’s total confusion, he steps closer to him instead of going inside the room to inspect his gifts.

Aziraphale grabs both of his hands this time, and Crowley can feel his eyes widening.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says with such feeling Crowley wants to look around to make sure that no one from Heaven popped in to remind the angel that **Worship like this should only be uttered to the Lord**.

Crowley stares, helpless, as Aziraphale presses identically sweet kisses to his knuckles on both hands.

“I ought to thank you for each and every one,” Aziraphale breathes, perhaps only to himself, it’s so quiet, but it helps Crowley croak out:

“Please, angel, by all means.” He should be proud of how cool he sounds, but with Aziraphale standing so close, it is truly a miracle he hasn’t stuttered.

“You don’t mind, dearest?”

Crowley shakes his head vigorously. Words elude him again, it seems. _Dearest._ He has been _my dear_ before, countless times. Never _dearest_.

Aziraphale is so close he could lean in and kiss him, or nuzzle his nose into his hair above his ear, or pull him even closer into a long hug. Crowley does nothing, to make sure he doesn’t “go too fast”. Not because this is already way past everything he has ever expected, no.

“Come sit with me then.” He tugs Crowley by his hand a bit, just enough to get the demon out of his stupor.

Aziraphale miracles them high barstools with weird, soft-looking furnishings, and pulls the first book off the shelf. 11)

11) Well, we say book, but it is barely a leaflet.

“Oh,” he cries in delight. “How did you manage to get a hold of this, Crowley?”

Crowley doesn’t know what it is, frankly.

“Well, only the best for my angel,” he says, cocky, because he can get away with a bit more teasing when Aziraphale is almost glowing from happiness. Crowley is a coward too, because he is sure that the little “my” will get lost between his teeth and Aziraphale’s almost certainly self-deafening excitement.

He gives a long explanation why it is such a treasure that Crowley found, and Crowley could not parrot back a single sentence from his joyful explanation, because he is too busy committing the image of him to his memory. How Crowley managed to fall in love with him so devastatingly, he has no idea – he only knows that this love has sustained him longer than anything else, and it makes more sense than all the sin and the glory Hell and Heaven can offer.

“Thank you so much,” Aziraphale says, gently places the book onto another shelf, taking up Crowley’s left hand with the same care and placing a tickling, butterfly-soft kiss on his wrist.

It’s over in a second, but the fact of it lingers between them. The first few times, it could have been explained away as a mistake. This had been deliberate, a caress, a- a- was this a seduction?

If yes, it fitted Aziraphale so completely. Measured, almost polite, soft and kind and heartfelt. Crowley didn’t dare swallow nor blink. Barely dared to hope too.

“I have this one. No, I suppose I only had. Oh, but thanks to you, I have it again. She signed it for me, you know, the one I had in the bookshop? This will be a lovely memento of that meeting too, I’m sure of it. Thank you, Crowley.”

This kiss is quicker, like Aziraphale can’t wait to get it over with and look at the next one, but Crowley is not complaining, because the angel has licked his lips at some point and its wet. The sensation is completely different, and Crowley can feel the ghost of it more than the previous ones.

“This is more of your taste than mine,” Aziraphale says at the next one with the red cover, Crowley is not sure he’d be able to read the title if he tried, and he doesn’t really care anyhow. “but I will cherish it just the same.”

This kiss arrives at the place between his thumb and forefinger. Crowley is too hot all of a sudden. There are _so many more_ books on that shelf. Will Aziraphale kiss him for truly each and every one of them? Crowley is not sure he can survive that. He is equally uncertain about asking Aziraphale anything. He doesn’t want to interrupt his time with his new books. Would the angel realise if he’d started miracling new ones onto the shelf? That would be cheating, thus very suited to Crowley and properly demonic, but surely Aziraphale would notice. Would he pretend for his sake, so he could keep peppering considerate kisses on his skin? Could they sit here forever, in the halo of his happiness and Crowley’s burning devotion for him?

The next kiss is on the back of his other hand.

The next after that and Crowley wonders when Aziraphale will look up, see the state of his face and run away.

When will the excitement over the books win him over so completely that he forgets to give another little peck on Crowley’s oh so sensitive skin or when will he notice himself, his prim and proper angel, when will the affection stop, because Crowley might die if it does and might die if it doesn’t, too.

 _The Gasp_ always follows the revelation of a new volume, but it turns into something even more and Crowley dimly recognises the misprinted Bible in Aziraphale’s hands.

“Crowley, this...” Aziraphale looks up, blinks, and even if he were not so close, Crowley couldn’t even try to even contemplate to try to control his face. He is sure that the angel can see everything and more, not only because the blush is spreading on his face, or because of the little ‘oh’ sound he breathes, not even because he starts faintly glowing. It’s his eyes that give Aziraphale away – and for one, two, three, four truly terrifying seconds Crowley can see everything in them, a kaleidoscope of love, fear, wonder.

Then Aziraphale leans closer and kisses him on the lips.

It feels like the first breath after his Fall. It feels like when he saw his favourite plant flower for the first time. It feels like sinking into sleep in the warmest of beds. It feels like the biggest, sweetest, stickiest blue cotton candy.

The Bible falls out of Aziraphale’s hands as he reaches to hold Crowley’s face, and neither of them bothers with a miracle to secure its survival.

There are so many kisses Crowley forgets to count them. Parts of the List wash away. Other parts, like

  1. _Make him as happy as demonly, humanly and heavenly possible._



slowly seem more possible than ever before.

Aziraphale pulls away right at the minute Crowley thinks his heart might expire from the continuous sweet torture, and before Crowley could work himself into a frenzy about eye-contact and words he should produce and What Just Happened! Aziraphale smiles at him sweetly, despite the winning shine in his gaze which Crowley knows very well from the moments the angel convinces him to get some dessert for himself (which they both know is basically just a second dessert for Aziraphale). He is breathless too, so Crowley feels a bit less stupid about concentrating on not falling out of his chair with about 80% of all his brainpower. The rest is screaming inarticulately.

“Good.” Aziraphale says, and Crowley makes a noise back at him, something not really translatable, but nevertheless containing a gulp, an exhale and a whole barrel of affection.

Aziraphale’s smile turns even fonder. After six thousand years it seems he speaks _Crowley_ fluently.

“I should probably tell you this wasn’t solely for the books.”

“No kidding,” Crowley mutters, very coolly. ??)

??) What Aziraphale hears is “Bhoghly hezkl”, with a little hiss at the end. He deciphers the meaning and thinks it’s fair enough, he took way too long to confess his feelings already.

“But rather… how I feel about you,” Aziraphale says, a bit quieter after a second of hesitation. He seemingly can’t help himself and glances around them and up at Crowley’s ceiling, as if expecting eavesdroppers. Or something much worse. Crowley doesn’t have his illusions about a caring God, but it’s a gift of an unobserved second to steal a look at Aziraphale’s reddened mouth.

“I love you, Crowley,” he says, and it’s still a trial of a confession – leaves his lips in a small, soft exhale. A second or two clicks away and they are staring at each other in utter silence.

The second confession is for him alone “ _I love you, Crowley_ ”, and all the more overwhelming for it. Aziraphale finally rushing to keep up with him.

The angel cups his face from both of the sides. “Beautiful serpent of mine,” he mutters and

and Crowley just dies on the spot – or does something that feels quite like it. Gravity wins and he slips out of his chair, lands on his knees before him. Mentally adds another point to his now rather pointless List.

  1. _Take him apart with your tongue._



“Let me, please?” He doesn’t recognise his whining. That’s surely not him. (His hands claw uselessly at Aziraphale’s knees.)

“You can have anything you want.” Aziraphale soothes, pupils blown and looking very much like some decadent and all-too holy and powerful angel in desperate need of debauchery and worship. Crowley crawls closer to him, and lets go just a little, leaning forward. Nose and temple to his knees. He wants to – he wants to be filled with Aziraphale, take him as soon and as close as he is able. (Who knows how much time they have left?) He wants to taste him if they are to be taken from each other. A touch of his trembling hand to the angel’s inner thigh. Aziraphale pushes himself forward in his chair, putting his feet down and spreading them, and Crowley murmurs a miracle-threat towards the chair to keep upright no matter what. However much Aziraphale moves or shifts, he is to be safe.

His trousers feel rough to the touch, but some of the angel’s warmth radiates through the material too. There was... _is_ an important part on Crowley’s List, he can no longer recall the number, but it says “ _Touching him is only allowed with the maximum amount of reverence_ ” and Crowley never had something as vulgar as a blowjob added to the list before, not even when the act itself hadn’t yet had that name, because to think of their corporations being so close together and imagining believable ways to give Aziraphale pleasure never seemed quite possible before.

Crowley feels his anxiety spike. He’s made an Effort already? Crowley always wondered what sort it would be, but perhaps Aziraphale didn’t switch them around occasionally like he did.

He looks up and almost wishes he hadn’t – Aziraphale

Aziraphale.

It’s just too much. From this angle. There is nothing else Crowley can see, and then the angel moves a hand to brush his cheek softly with the pad of his thumb and Crowley croaks:

“Am I allowed?”

Aziraphale brushes his cheekbones again. He sighs the most wondrous sigh Crowley’s ever heard him make.

“Yes, dearest.” He adds a bit quieter, as if only murmuring to himself, “How could I deny you anything ever again.”

Crowley chokes back an utterly relieved thank you, but only barely so. He doesn’t remember how he gets the button open – would be surprised to find Aziraphale not wearing a 50 years out of date piece of clothing, if his brain was online for it. But he’s utterly distracted at the enormity of all his dreams of a few thousand years coming true. _Aziraphale loves him back._

The underwear _is_ a bit old-fashioned, but that means it’s easier to pull Aziraphale free.

He is smaller than how Crowley looks when he equips himself with a cock – skin browner and he’s thicker too, and those are the only observations Crowley makes before Aziraphale exhales noisily and starts _growing_ in his hand. Crowley gets really close to blaspheming, and muffles his word with a kiss to Aziraphale’s balls. The skin of them is so soft, and this close he smells a bit like old paper (and chocolate, which shouldn’t be possible) _._ Crowley noses against him which prompts another noise and a twitch of the member he is loosely holding. He is getting harder at a rapid pace and Crowley shifts closer again, pressing his hot mouth against his penis, marvelling at the sound Aziraphale rewards him with.

Aziraphale has white pubic hair, which Crowley may or may not have wondered about before ???), but he is now close enough to touch, and it’s overwhelming, all of it is, but the noise in his head is what helps him be _slow_ of all things, to loosen and push down the trousers and stroke a finger over the top of Aziraphale’s inner thigh with the same softness he caresses his face with – and Aziraphale trembles almost as badly as Crowley’s heart does, and it’s better than feeling the Bentley purr under his hands.

???) Roughly 58573 times.

He takes Aziraphale into his mouth. He hears a hissed out “Crowley”, which makes him completely weak. He swirls his tongue around the head, not even bothering to transform his tongue into its snake form. Another time. He slips his arms around Aziraphale’s waist, wishing to take him deeper, mind going to the porn he’s seen about people fucking each other’s faces with arousing brutality.

Aziraphale is polite, unlike those men in the human pornography. He makes small, quiet noises, little bitten -back moans and appreciations containing Crowley’s name and various endearments. He is a bit salty and wonderful as he continues leaking precome on his tongue, and Crowley wants to taste more so he sucks again – and the angel’s hands fly to the back of his neck, halfway into his hair, and Crowley groans in pleasure. There is no pressure from Aziraphale’s hand, but the comforting warmth and weight of it and the gentle rubbing completely takes Crowley’s remaining control away. He feels his wings manifest behind him, which would be slightly embarrassing, but Aziraphale tells him how _good_ he is, and... well. His hair grows out, maybe to encourage the angel to grip him more firmly by it – but Aziraphale just strokes his fingers through tenderly and tells him that he looks gorgeous.

What started out as a very well put together (if Crowley says so himself) oral stimulation turns sloppy very quickly. Crowley drools all over his own chin, Aziraphale’s cock and balls and it makes it a bit too hot (almost too much to bear) and a lot easier to move on and off him. Taking him deeper and pulling back again has Aziraphale mutter something very close to a curse. His fingers move on Crowley’s neck and his cock twitches in his mouth and Crowley’s jaw hurts in the best kind of way and isn’t it ridiculous how aroused and needy and lost Crowley feels, how utterly unable he is to look up to check if-

“Are you alright, dear?” Aziraphale pants, and Crowley just screws his eyes shut shouting inside _are you kidding, this is the best thing that happened to me since I’ve started conducting that stupid list, are you aware what you are giving me angel how much trust you are placing in me how much of a gift you are giving me how I longed to serve you like this_

He does some encouraging humming, or perhaps it’s his hand sneaking up and settling shortly on the angel’s heart that does it, and falling back to his stomach, giving his soft tummy a gentle stroke over, deciding he’ll kiss that patch of skin after.

“Mmmm,” Aziraphale murmurs, and says something that completely fucks Crowley up in the best of ways. “How perfect you are for me, sweetheart.”

Crowley grips his hips and pulls back to come into his jeans with a surprised shout.

“Shi-- Fuck. Fuck.” He can’t help but check the damage with his hands – his jeans soaked, cock giving a weak protest. He puts his forehead against the angel’s abdomen, panting, hiding his face because it’s getting too red, he is sure.

Aziraphale hasn’t stopped petting his hair, and although his hard, wet cock is bobbing against Crowley’s face, clearly desperate for its own release, he hasn’t said anything but kind sweet nothings to reassure him.

So Crowley rests there, just a few seconds, thinking about how happy and comfortable and sated he is. He feels loved. Aziraphale calls him _beautiful_ . He calls him _darling._

Crowley licks a wet trail over his cock, and the angel gasps at the return of the heat of his mouth.

“Crowley, I--” he moans as Crowley redoubles his efforts, taking him deeper and sucking harder. Aziraphale is getting closer judging by the sighs, the trembles of his thighs. He reaches a hand down and Crowley takes it, holding on.

  1. _I’m never letting you go_.



When Aziraphale starts to come, Crowley works him through it attentively, and almost thanks God for his own existence. He realises at the last moment that he shouldn’t – would be really unfortunate if God chose this moment to talk back. God is not the real threat, of course, it’s their respective offices. Crowley shudders, and despite Aziraphale’s no doubt glowing post-orgasmic phase, he is called out on it.

“Dearest?”

“We have to keep going, angel. I want you to fuck me now – or, or… come hide away with me, otherwise it might be too late,” his voice is used and rough, but he is pleading with all his heart.

Aziraphale sighs, squeezes the hand he still holds. He miracles himself away with a soft wave of his hand, and Crowley feels like crying when he sees him buttoned up again, clothes fixed.

“Come up here,” Aziraphale tugs gently, but Crowley is way too raw, upset and paralysed to stand on two legs again, even if it would mean leaning into Aziraphale’s warmth.

“Nooo,” he whines. “You come down here.”

_Aziraphale does._

He arranges himself around Crowley like he is the one with the snake-y past. Keeps a hand around Crowley’s waist and slides the other one into his long hair and pulls him close and Crowley feels so much for him he is trying not to lose it.

“Sweetheart,” his angel says and Crowley’s heart lurches, “I’ll tell you what is going to happen. Our plan will work. We will be free. We will have time, and...” He strokes Crowley’s hair, his neck, and Crowley just hugs him tighter. “I’ll never leave your side.”

“Wanna do that, dearest? Move into a new flat. Spend our days together. Go out to eat and drink at home by the fire. Make love before the next dawn. Would you like that?”

“Would I like that,” Crowley scoffs. He wishes for his sunglasses, and hopes the “angel, I would fucking **love** that” is obvious enough to remain unsaid.

Aziraphale seems to understand, because he kisses his cheek softly, affectionately.

“Now, where do you think is big enough for my humble, but beautiful new book collection, and has enough bright spots for all your plants?”

“Small bedroom, huge four poster bed...” That prompts Aziraphale to giggle quietly into his ear. Crowley turns a bit to smile at him, and the angel smiles back, and it all turns into kissing softly and planning a new life.

Not that it is more than wishful thinking, and Crowley knows they both have their doubts. Even if Aziraphale is putting up a brave front for him, he can see it in his eyes. But the contact between them, the constant warmth of his skin, the sweetness of his kisses and the murmured endearments feel like Crowley is basking in the sun – and his love is returned! If out of six thousand years, they have only this evening… well, Crowley thinks it might be enough.

They switch bodies at the very last minute, following the plan they came up with on the bus back to London, sharing a last kiss before Crowley prepares to leave his flat and his angel. He raised the issue of practising to do the other’s mannerisms a bit and giving each other pointers, but the angel just gave him a sassy eyebrow-pull and shot back “like I don’t know how you walk.” which Crowley guesses must be payback for the “I know what you smell like” a few years back.>>)

>>) Even more so because Aziraphale (the bastard) first kept making references to his new barber, then arranged a set of completely fake “accidental meetings” to introduce her to Crowley. Which left Crowley to stew in his jealousy for absolutely no reason at all, because the woman turned out to be completely a, gay, b, married, and c, very confused why she found herself stepping into different kind of dining establishments just to run into her weirdest and worst dressed patron in company with the most stylish person she ever met. Or so Crowley reckoned.

  
  


When Crowley sees the bookshop restored, his heart soars – his stomach falls. It was a nice dream, collecting the new books together, buying a house or cottage, building a new life. Now everything is back to normal, back to how it was before – except…

“Those are new,” he mutters, hears Aziraphale’s dear voice.

They have to survive first. Later Crowley can angst over how the first few new items on his After My Angel Kissed Me List all deal with pursuing Crowley’s numerous earthly connections and hassling random rich rotten people to demand antique books from them. How that’s all useless now that Aziraphale has got back his precious first editions. Oh, well – he will need to think of other ways to prove his devotion.

One thing at a time. First they’ll go and get ice lollies.

“How’s the bookshop?” Aziraphale asks, his excitement only barely seeping through Crowley’s practised cool tone. So Crowley tells him. Tells himself to get over himself. The affection wasn’t just about the books, surely…

“We’ll have to put up a new shelf for my _gifts_ ,” Aziraphale says the word like it’s gluttony put into sound. Like it's the words orgy and five tier wedding cake and sunbathing all rolled into one. It might be only Crowley’s voice that does that to the angel’s perfectly innocent… oh, but let’s not kid around, the angel is far from innocent. And he really likes cakes. “And forgive me if I’m being forward, but I think I need to make some changes to the bedroom too...” Crowley slowly breathes out, shoulder’s dropping… and then, as it happens, that’s when they get him.

He gets dragged into Heaven, and plays his part, very nearly prays for Aziraphale, and makes it out alive, and relatively free. Crowley is almost delirious with joy to see him again, unharmed, and Aziraphale laughs with him, tells him about his antics in Hell after they switch back in the park.

Crowley successfully convinces himself to take Aziraphale’s hand two minutes before their arrival at the Ritz (it’s a ten minute walk, so clearly he has to work on his timing some more), and Aziraphale pulls him into the gents to kiss the taste of relief and victory onto his lips. Crowley eagerly responds, and thinks: everything will be all right.

He watches Aziraphale eat and eats some himself. The angel talks excitedly and for once Crowley leaves his list alone. Sure, he should make certain that Aziraphale is spoiled rotten every day onwards, and that he always has something to excitedly putter on about, just like he does now, but Crowley is sure he will manage to do that without having to rely on his mental crutches anymore.

After dessert, and the celebratory second dessert (“Don’t give me the eyebrows, Crowley, we deserve it, we’re finally here! Have another glass of champagne, darling.”) they take a walk in St. James Park, and Crowley gets his hand held all the way there, and all the way across the park, and then all the way back to the bookshop. He can’t quite convince his face to stop smiling. Aziraphale is radiant in the sunshine, and now Crowley knows how his lips taste, and he will get to kiss him again in the bookshop, and perhaps, in due time, when they are used to it, Crowley will be also able to kiss him in the streets. Public displays of affection do tend to annoy the general public, and thanks to their corporations they can also frustrate the homophobes. Aziraphale will like the idea, because Crowley will be able to say (quite honestly, too) that they’d also be spreading awareness and showing their support for the queer community. Oh, to do mischief and other four letter word things without the demands or reprimands of Below.

Aziraphale is letting his hand go to greet the new books Adam must have installed for him, and Crowley watches him, thankful he has his sunglasses on. He must look ridiculously soft, and kind of wishes Aziraphale would do something annoying (like crowd in on him to try to enlist his help for a new ‘magic trick’) just so Crowley could swallow down a bit of the affection that is threatening to drown him and wash him completely to the feet of the angel. It would be bad form to kneel in front of him again (twice in two days, really, Crowley?), to beg for fingers in his hair, to ask for another chance to pleasure him. Crowley snarls at himself to have patience. The angel needs time to reacquaint himself with his books. Crowley needs to know his place. Firmly behind the books. And perhaps after cakes, but probably before the ducks. Maybe even before sushi. Aziraphale interrupts his musings (not list making, no, sir/madam/distinguished person) by coming over and taking his hand and pulling him over.

“Crowley, Crowley, look at this!” He beams, using Crowley’s hand to press it against his chest in his usual sign of “oh, how utterly lovely this wonderful human invention is”. Crowley, weakened, feeling Aziraphale’s heart beating excitedly, looks obediently. There is an empty shelf up behind Aziraphale’s table, out of reach from the customers. It seems the exact length to fit all the books Crowley accumulated over time for Aziraphale. Crowley blushes.

“I’m not sure I’m comfortable with the fact that the eleven year old Antichrists knows exactly what happened between us...” he drawls.

“Oh,” Aziraphale hums as if that hasn’t occurred to him. Crowley is delighted to see he looks a bit embarrassed too. “Well I’m sure he was respectful of our privacy. He seemed like a bright young boy, didn’t he, darling?”

“Ngk,” Crowley says, that word still catching his heart like a hook. Darling. Out loud, right in the middle of the day. Crowley is cool, though – he can totally do casual conversation, “He is a human boy, darling.”

Oh, fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. How did that slip out?

Aziraphale cocks an amused eyebrow at him. He sees right through of Crowley’s mortification.

Crowley moves, trying to explain that it was not sarcastic, not meant to make fun of the angel at all, he just, he just. The thing is, Crowley’s explanation, in this state, is much more of an anxiety-filled flutter of hands, some half-bitten through words and a lot of humiliating hissing.

Aziraphale smiles and reaches a hand that he puts on Crowley’s face. He pushes his sunglasses down his nose a bit, just enough that they have direct eye contact when he says,

“Darling.”

Oh, the complete bastard. Crowley shudders, and that seems to do Aziraphale in, finally, because the look he gives him is something full of love and maybe more than that, delicious. Making Crowley’s knees disappear.

“I love you so,” Aziraphale says and it’s husky and full of lust, yes, that’s definitely lust. He is kissed with passion, and Crowley can’t help but moan into his angel’s mouth. He starts to scramble at Aziraphale’s trousers, but his hands are pushed away.

“You had your turn yesterday, darling, now it’s me who will have a taste,” Aziraphale says, but the end is tilted up like a question, and Crowley’s gets rid of his glasses because they bob dangerously when he nods frantically.

“Excellent,” Aziraphale assesses, and miracles the shop closed, the blinds down and the lights on. He also pulls Crowley between two bookshelves, and Crowley discovers his knees in fact did not disappear, they are just extremely unsteady. What is the point of knees anyway? Is that the part of the human corporation that holds something together? What is its purpose? Crowley is sure he knows this, that the answer is there somewhere in the parts of his brain currently clouded over with Aziraphale’s close presence. He is pushed against the books gently, and he thinks he could joke about this clearly being one of Aziraphale’s fantasies (not like it isn’t one of his, but maybe the angel would get flustered, and he is sooooo beautiful when he is shifting from foot to foot, wriggling his hands), when it occurs to him. Well, it’s kind of something from the Previous List.

“Wait,” shuffling over a few steps to the left. Now Wilde’s books can see them fully. Crowley grins provocatively at them. “Okay, angel, mmm, good now.”

It takes Aziraphale a few seconds to catch up.

“Oh, honestly,” he says, rolling his eyes. “There wasn’t anything between us, Crowley.”

“I’ve seen you kiss him with my own two eyes!” Crowley cried indignantly.

“He was dying, it was a goodbye! Besides, you kissed him too right after I did!”

Crowley softens.

“And why do you think that was, angel?” He questions quietly.

Aziraphale looks at him, eyes widening.

“I barely deserve you, darling.”

“Ugh. Nonsense,” Crowley forces out. His heart is beating fast and fluttery.

“It’s true,” Aziraphale tells him with sadness tinting his voice, “You’ve been so patient, while I repeatedly denied us being friends.” He sighs. “I’m really sorry, dearest.”

Crowley swallows around the tightness in his throat. Get that, 1273.

“You are my best friend,” Aziraphale says, squeezing his hands between their bodies. Crowley nods, trying to force back the tears that are threatening to spill.

“You are the love of my life,” he confesses quietly. It’s something even a demon can say, hidden between all of the greatest love stories of human literature. Maybe the Wilde books approve, Crowley thinks, but then he realises he rather hopes they are getting green with envy and getting their pages yellow-er by their insane jealousy. Although perhaps not that, because Aziraphale wouldn’t like his books being dama--

“Oh, all the things I want to do to you, my love. I have quite the list, you now.” Aziraphale says, and Crowley thinks he misheard. 

Then he grins, and perhaps with the biggest smile he ever had on his face, he answers: “Oh, angel. You have no idea.” 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't think I can express enough times how much of a privilege and an absolute joy it was to work with Scribblemakes. Now that you've seen the art, please join me in singing his praises.


End file.
